New York Minute: Part Two

So I pushed my way down to Soho tonight to finish up my shopping. The train was packed, the streets only slightly less so, and the lines in the stores were long. I jostled for position, my arms laden with bags, and waited patiently while neurotic women held up the line b/c they could not choose between red or green or gold ribbon for their $50 hand cream.

My errands finished, I found myself standing all alone on the corner of Spring and Crosby. My day had been so long, and I so dreaded the slow train home that I wandered toward the bright red awnings of Balthazar.

I sat at the crowded bar alone.

And I ordered a glass of Sancerre.

And I watched the bartender pop the cork in a bottle of champagne, shake a martini, make an espresso.

And I listened to the loud echo of the voices around me, the pretty clink of an espresso spoon on a saucer, and the music in the background--something with an accordion, I think.

And the wine was so refreshing, so welcome, so perfect, that I ordered another, and I enjoyed the way things blurred pleasantly at the edges.

I swirled the pale wine in its glass. I swirled it again on my tongue and I thought of the great hope that comes with living in Manhattan--the hope that anything can happen at any moment. But I'm new here, remember?

One last sip of my wine.

One final nod at the bartender.

And I was on the street again, walking several blocks in the wrong direction before finding my way to the train.